Ease Up
by roktavor
Summary: Five times Abbacchio made sure Buccellati got some sleep, plus one time Buccellati made sure Abbacchio woke up. (aka: five goodnight kisses, plus one "good morning" kiss)


**A/N:** Welcome to my most blatant self-indulgence yet! Please keep any expectations of substance or desire for plot outside the ride at all times, thank you,

* * *

**Ease Up**

1.

A warm, dry palm bumps against Buccellati's, long fingers curling around his own.

"You okay?" That deep, typically smooth voice is a little rough from exertion, breath still not fully caught and puffing soft at Buccellati's ear.

It sends a pleasant shiver down his spine, and he squeezes at the hand in his on reflex. "Yes."

Well, he's as okay as he can be, all things considered. Rogue Passione recruits who think they're tough stuff even without stands are still capable of catching him off-guard, apparently – especially when they run to rival gangs for help and wind up teamed up in an ambush.

(_Why_ is it always Polpo's territory they want?)

"You?" He checks, shooting a glance at Abbacchio. The dim light of dusk that sneaks into the alleyway they've ducked down is enough for Buccellati to confirm that Abbacchio looks mostly unscathed; hair tangled from running and knuckles bloodied from punching being the worst of his problems.

Sure enough: "I'm fine," Abbacchio snaps.

Buccellati catches the rest of his breath on a sigh.

…Irritated as he seems, Abbacchio hasn't dropped his hand.

This is new. The hand-holding thing. They've never done that before. They've barely gotten the 'I-like-you's out.

At least, Buccellati has. Abbacchio's was a passable equivalent, stuttered out between staring gob smacked at Buccellati and frowning off into the distance, fiddling with his hair. Face bright red.

Still. The point about not holding hands until right this second stands.

Now _probably_ isn't the time to think about relationship milestones. Assured that the danger is passed, all Buccellati wants to do is sag boneless against the brick wall that's mere tantalizing _centimeters_ from his back. To take a quick breather before going home and calling it an early night (and _then_ he can think about relationship milestones, in the comfort of his own bed).

But his job isn't technically done. So he straightens already-rigid posture and considers the prison across the plaza, a direct shot from this alleyway.

A familiar, annoyed sort of grunt comes from Abbacchio –

And then Buccellati feels fingers brushing at his hair. His bangs are stuck to his forehead with sweat, and he blinks in the face of those fingers unsticking and rearranging them. Combing through to make sure they settle right.

"Why the fuck does he want to debrief you _immediately_," Abbacchio grumbles, free hand still at work, this time tweaking one of Buccellati's hairclips into place. "How'd he even hear about this shit so fast anyway…."

Buccellati swallows, stunned. Eyes locked on Abbacchio, now.

"What was it – five minutes ago that you zipped that last bastard to pieces?" Abbacchio grouches on. His expression is set in an unimpressed frown as he switches targets from Buccellati's hair to his face, tugging a sleeve over his fist to wipe at something on Buccellati's cheek. "And now Polpo calls, all 'I've noticed some unusual activity'," he scoffs, "no shit."

"Ah –" it's meant to be Abbacchio's name, but that's all Buccellati can get out. Abbacchio's shirtsleeve scrubs too-rough at a brush burn on his cheek – accidentally, of course –and he flinches without meaning to –

As if only just realizing what he's doing, Abbacchio freezes. One hand is poised not even a hair's breadth away from Buccellati's face. Purple-gold eyes widen, but don't avert from Buccellati's.

It's like a thermometer, the way a red blush spreads up Abbacchio's neck, and out from his cheeks. Like something out of a cartoon. He's not _as_ bright as when he kind-of-confessed, but it's a near thing.

…Buccellati is feeling a little flushed himself.

And not just from the exertion of fighting and running and stressing over potential danger. This is…pleasantly warm. _Slow_. Gentle like Abbacchio's fingers in his hair and _wow_ Buccellati might be a _bit_ too tired.

Abbacchio's still holding his hand, but his palm is less-dry now. His fingers twitch around Buccellati's, like they might let go, so Buccellati squeezes again, harder this time.

"His timing was a coincidence," he says, on the subject of Polpo.

"A shitty one," Abbacchio chokes out. His hovering hand drops, catching on the collar of Buccellati's suit to adjust it, doing up a loose clasp. "And he didn't have to talk to you _now_. Could've waited until tomorrow morning."

This kind of short notice is just part of the job, as far as Buccellati's concerned. At least he'll look presentable, thanks to Abbacchio's fussing – which is endearing and touching and a million other sweet things that Buccellati doesn't have time to process because he's about to go to a _meeting_ with his _capo_ but he'd rather stay _here_.

Maybe he won't be as presentable as he thought.

Abbacchio's hand slips out of his, and Buccellati misses its comfort instantly – but it gets to work soon enough, partnering with Abbacchio's other hand to brush down the front of a spotted suit jacket.

Abbacchio tugs at the fabric, working the rumples out until he's apparently satisfied. "There," he says, patting dust from Buccellati's shoulders, "now you look…."

"Presentable?" Buccellati guesses, at the same time as Abbacchio finishes with, "Perfect."

If Abbacchio was red before, he's aflame now, thoroughly flustered and mouth pressed into a tight line as he takes a step back, hands retracting.

And all Buccellati can do is _stare_. His heart is doing funny and unfamiliar things in his chest while his stomach flutters something awful.

After a very long moment, Abbacchio opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again. "You better –"

"Go," Buccellati blurts out, "yeah."

And he _does_ –

But not before darting forward to press a clumsy excuse for a kiss to the corner of Abbacchio's mouth. "Go home and rest," he insists, because he knows that otherwise, Abbacchio will wait here for him, "I'll see you tomorrow morning."

x

Abbacchio did _not_ go home and rest.

It's dark out by the time Buccellati leaves the prison, street lamps offering a dim glow that softens every edge. Even with all those black clothes lost in the shadows, he spots Abbacchio immediately: lounging on the curb across the street, with his long legs stretched out into the road. Kind of a dangerous position, but it is late, after all. There's little to no traffic around here during the daytime, and at night things are especially barren.

So Buccellati crosses to him, frown working its way onto his face as he comes up right in front of an unapologetic, nonplussed Abbacchio.

"Why are you still here?" Buccellati asks, even though the answer is _obvious_ and laden with implications that restart that funny warmth spreading through his chest.

After a short moment of hesitation, Abbacchio mutters, "I was waiting for you."

Buccellati shifts from one foot to the other, huffing out a sigh and fighting the way a blush threatens to soak his cheeks in pink again. "You need to get some sleep," he tells those drooping eyes and lazily combed out hair.

"So do you," comes the answering mumble, Abbacchio dusting himself off as he gets to his feet.

And Buccellati's mouth is stuck silent for a moment. Because Abbacchio really did wait the entire hour and a half for him on this uncomfortable curb. After specifically being told _not_ to. The whole thing is equal parts heartwarming and infuriating and Buccellati is so tired he could melt into the pavement.

_Why_ does Abbacchio's stubbornness have to be _endearing_?

"I'll sleep as soon as I get home," Buccellati promises, once he convinces his mouth to form words again.

"I'll walk you back," Abbacchio says, leaving no room at all for argument. Already strolling his merry way down the street in the direction of Buccellati's apartment.

So Buccellati tags along without protest. That rough palm slips into his own again, on the way – and just inside the door to his apartment, Abbacchio's mouth presses gentle to the corner of his own before they part ways.

* * *

2.

Buccellati has a terrible sleep schedule.

He doesn't ever admit it, or try to fix it, no matter how Abbacchio argues or cajoles (or complains).

No matter what, Buccellati simply _will not_ go to bed at a reasonable time because he has_ way too much_ work to do….

Every single night.

By this point, Abbacchio is convinced that Buccellati sits there waiting for work to auto-generate in front of him, or comes up with his own work-that-really-isn't-required, because there's no way one man can be expected to do so much, so often.

Getting up early, going to sleep late, working nonstop in between…it's just not healthy. Even _Abbacchio_ knows that, and he wrote the book on unhealthy life habits.

All that lack of sleep is bound to catch up to Buccellati eventually.

This is why Abbacchio isn't at all surprised when he lets himself into Buccellati's room to find him slumped over his desk, fast asleep with a still-steaming cup of coffee at his elbow.

It's long past midnight, and Buccellati should have been in bed _hours_ ago. He promised.

Never mind that Abbacchio is also still awake. That isn't his fault. He _can't_ sleep – Buccellati _won't_. There's a difference, and said difference is the reason why Abbacchio feels authorized to check on Buccellati and bully him into bed when necessary.

…He looks so peaceful when he sleeps. Minute stress lines smooth out, and the set of his mouth goes all soft. Thick, dark eyelashes flutter against his cheeks. His eyebrows relax. Shoulders go loose, free of tension.

God. Abbacchio is _staring_.

He should stop doing that and start being useful by putting Buccellati in his actual bed. If he sleeps the night away in this position, he'll wake up all kinds of sore…and then refuse any help dispelling said soreness in favor of _working_, and thus start the whole cycle all over again the next night with an added layer of misery.

Then again, at least he's actually sleeping.

If Abbacchio moves him, he'll wake up. And fight the whole 'being put to bed' thing tooth and nail. Insist he was just resting his eyes and plunk himself back down in that hard wooden desk chair….

Some of Buccellati's hair is falling into his face. It's loose from its usual style, golden hair clips set to the side of the papers that Buccellati is probably smudging with drool. The braid was giving him a headache, Abbacchio guesses – it does that, when Buccellati wears it too long by virtue of _staying up too late_.

With careful fingers, Abbacchio brushes the escaped hair back from Buccellati's face, tucking it behind his ear.

…Bending down to kiss his cheek afterwards isn't strictly _necessary_, but Abbacchio does it anyway. Buccellati's skin is smooth and warm and he stays fast asleep. Even after a second kiss.

Using the thumb that he rubs over Buccellati's eyebrow, Abbacchio tucks _more_ errant hairs behind Buccellati's ear, trying (and failing) not to get all embarrassingly flustered at the black smudge of lipstick left on that tanned cheek.

Buccellati shifts, so Abbacchio pulls away as if burnt –

But shifting is all Buccellati does. When he resettles, still asleep, those damn hairs slide back over his face, and Abbacchio gives a soft, "Tsk," as he again nudges them out of the way.

Now, to work.

First order of business is to get rid of that coffee, because if Buccellati wakes up and sees it there, he'll guzzle it down and pretend that it gives him enough energy to completely replace sleep.

So Abbacchio removes it from the premises, picking it up and ferrying it to the bathroom for disposal. (On the way, he sips at it, but it has too much sugar and too little alcohol in it to be any good, so it gets unceremoniously dumped down the drain. He rinses the mug out and hides it behind a tissue box.)

Then it's back to Buccellati's side where he belongs, analyzing his position to determine the best way to pick him up and physically carry him to bed – which Abbacchio has decided is the most foolproof way of convincing Buccellati to get some real, actual _rest_.

Papers – or, now that Abbacchio gets a closer look: a few notes from private citizens requesting Buccellati's assistance with personal troubles, _God_, this man – have become a flat, uncomfortable pillow beneath Buccellati's cheek. One of his arms is splayed on the desk next to his face, while the other dangles down toward the floor, and he's sitting hunched forward in his chair, socked feet tucked a little ways beneath it.

If left alone much longer, he might very well slip off of his seat and wind up completely on the floor.

All the more reason for Abbacchio to get him away from that desk.

No need to hesitate.

….

After a moment's hesitation, Abbacchio starts by wrapping an arm snug around Buccellati's shoulders. He's wearing a t-shirt with his usual spotted suit pants – apparently he _started_ to get ready for bed at one point or another, but didn't make it very far. Points for trying, Abbacchio supposes.

From here it's a delicate business of Abbacchio crouching at an awkward angle so he can slip his other arm behind Buccellati's knees. And then it's the even _more_ delicate business of hefting Buccellati up into an actual carry.

_All_ while trying not to be _flustered_ by something as mundane as _proximity_.

There's plenty of jostling to go along with the whole picking up thing, of course, because dragging someone out of a chair and away from a desk can never really be a graceful procedure. And so – of course – Buccellati wakes up.

He jerks to awareness in Abbacchio's hold, fingers catching in the lacing at the front of Abbacchio's shirt. "What –"

"I've got you," Abbacchio mutters on automatic, even as he damn near drops Buccellati thanks to all of his squirming. "You fell asleep at your desk."

Buccellati gives a sleepy grunt, continuing to not-hold-still until he's peering down at the desk he was just using as a sad excuse for a bed. "Where's my coffee?" is what he mumbles, Abbacchio thinks. It comes out all slurred by sleep, so he can't really tell – Buccellati's bleary eyes are barely open, let alone his mouth – but it sounds close enough.

"Gone," is all Abbacchio says, already crossing the room.

In response, Buccellati shifts _more_ and is almost dropped _again_. Body twisting, he grabs at Abbacchio's clothes and reaches toward his desk with sluggish hands. "I have t–"

"Nope." Not daring to pause as he readjusts his hold on Buccellati, Abbacchio completes his march to the bed. "It's bedtime."

He ought to dump Buccellati onto the mattress with the same blasé carelessness that he dumped that coffee down the drain with, in retaliation for all of the uncooperative squirming he did.

But he can't bring himself to do so. Sets him down careful as if he's made of glass, instead.

Because Buccellati is _precious_.

"Leone," Buccellati tries, his hands fumbling at Abbacchio's shoulders to try and nudge him out of the way so Buccellati can complete his attempted roll out of bed.

"No." Plucking those hands off of him, Abbacchio gathers his courage. Presses a quick kiss to the back of each set of knuckles before releasing them.

They land against Buccellati's chest, and he looks almost stunned. His cheeks are dusted _pink_, unless Abbacchio is seeing things.

Good. The two of them match now.

Eyes blinking owlish up at Abbacchio, Buccellati's plush mouth opens and stays frozen that way for a few seconds before words start to happen. "I'm not –"

"You need to sleep," Abbacchio says, cutting off whatever bullshit argument Buccellati is trying to dream up. He averts his eyes and attention alike, allotting himself the important task of tugging Buccellati's pants off.

…Which…doesn't do much to distract from the feel of those eyes staring him down, but. These slacks are uncomfortable-as-all-hell, and Abbacchio isn't going to let Buccellati keep them on after going to the trouble of getting him off of that uncomfortable-as-all-hell chair.

It seems to fluster Buccellati, too, at least, who makes an odd sort of noise in the back of his throat. One hand curls into his t-shirt while the other twitches toward Abbacchio, stopping halfway.

"There," Abbacchio mumbles, haphazardly folding the pants (because Buccellati gets mad if his clothes aren't kept neat, even the dirty ones) before dropping them to the floor. "Now sleep."

And with that, Abbacchio will be on his way out of here, mission accomplished –

Or.

Maybe not.

Because Buccellati's hand picks up where it left off with that twitch, ultimately grabbing a fistful of Abbacchio's shirt and tugging at it when he tries to leave.

"You, too," Buccellati insists. He even sits up a bit, with all of his urging.

Ah, fuck.

Abbacchio can't refuse Buccellati, with his droopy eyes and messy hair and sleep-rough voice.

If this is what it takes for Buccellati to get some decent sleep, then so be it. Abbacchio will…make that sacrifice. Suffer that hardship. Accept the horrible burden of curling up next to him.

Any. Any second now, he'll get to that.

Gently, his face burning, Abbacchio untangles Buccellati's hand from his shirt so he can ease it back down to the bed. Then he yanks on the laces of his top, loosening it for removal. His pants go next, and his socks after them.

Sleepy blue eyes watch him all the while, and follow him as he climbs into bed (with movements that are probably too stiff to seem relaxed, but it's _fine_).

Abbacchio doesn't bother to remove his makeup. Even though it'll be a smudged mess in the morning, and his face is liable to break out, he wagers that the odds of Buccellati sneaking away to try and answer sob story letters are too high if Abbacchio leaves him alone long enough to run to the bathroom and wash his face.

So on it stays. As he settles in bed.

Lying on his side. Face to face with Buccellati.

"Happy now?" Abbacchio grumbles. He bites the bullet. Drapes an arm over Buccellati's waist, huddling right up next to him before he loses the nerve to. Buccellati is plenty warm, but Abbacchio tugs the blankets over the both of them anyway. Because it's cozier.

"Mm," Buccellati confirms as he tips eagerly into Abbacchio's embrace, nuzzling his forehead against Abbacchio's chin –

So Abbacchio enacts the appropriate response of pressing a kiss to his bangs (while trying uselessly to fend off his blush). "Good. Sleep."

Buccellati does not sleep. Instead, he wiggles closer, arms winding around Abbacchio as he pushes their bodies flush together, thoroughly entangling them. Cuddling up to him with intent. Legs all entwined and everything.

_Comfortable_ doesn't even begin to describe this. Even Abbacchio is going to get a good night's sleep at this rate, in spite of the butterflies wreaking havoc on his insides.

…As an added bonus, in this position he can hold Buccellati good and tight, and make _sure_ he doesn't sneak out of bed at the ass-crack of dawn. Little does Buccellati know that he's about to _sleep in_ for once in his life. Hah.

Full lips brush soft at the edge of Abbacchio's cheek, almost _startling_ him, and the hold he has on his blush goes that much looser. Those butterflies flutter all frantic through his stomach.

"Night, Leone," Buccellati murmurs.

Heart thudding too loud for this time of night, Abbacchio shoves his mouth onto Buccellati's temple and mutters, "Goodnight, Bruno."

* * *

3.

The number that lights up the caller ID draws a tiny smile to the corner of Buccellati's lips.

…Even though he told Abbacchio to only call him if it were absolutely necessary. Which could mean this is some kind of emergency. So he shouldn't be grinning like a love-struck fool and should instead be _answering his phone_.

"Hello?"

"Bruno," Abbacchio's voice is steady, soothingly calm, "hi."

"Leone." Even though Buccellati forced himself to stop grinning like a love-struck fool only a second ago, here he is, right back at it. He should try for sounding businesslike. "What do you need?"

"I just called to say goodnight."

Those few simple words are enough to warm Buccellati to his core, relaxing him in a way that not much does anymore. So much that he can _feel_ his heart in his chest, beating out a steady rhythm. The effect of Abbacchio's secret sort of sweetness. It's disarming. All that survives the trip from Buccellati's overwhelmed brain to his mouth is a soft: "Oh."

Abbacchio, fortunately, seems unfazed. Or at least sounds it. "How was your day?"

"Fine." That's all Buccellati is actually able to say over the phone like this, but it's alright, because he'd rather not dwell on work right this second. "Yours?"

"Dinner was quiet without Fugo and Narancia trying to stab each other."

Buccellati never has this much trouble fighting off smiles – there must be something wrong with him. The day's work is getting to him, maybe. _Or_ his affection for Abbacchio is going unrestrained at the mere sound of his voice. One of the two. No idea which one. Could perhaps be a mix of both?

"See?" Buccellati says, taking a seat on the edge of the hotel bed, cellphone pressed to his ear. "Something good came out of this business trip after all."

There's a snort from Abbacchio. "I'd still rather have dinner with you."

Oh.

Abbacchio's tongue sure is loose tonight, and it's making Buccellati's heart do something that resembles acrobatics in his chest. Which feels just as ridiculous as it sounds, but he's too work-weary and too enamored to care right now. (Ah, it definitely is both.)

"Even if that meant Fugo would also be home, fighting with Narancia before the food even got to the table?"

A short pause, during which Buccellati worries that he's gone ahead and killed whatever mood they were working up because he's _bad_ at these things.

But his fears are quickly assuaged.

"I'd take you out, just the two of us," Abbacchio explains, his voice soft and quieter than before. Careful, almost.

"That –" Buccellati's face feels unnaturally warm over not much at all, and for some reason he's tripping over his response. "That would be nice."

"If…you were here, tonight," Abbacchio continues, even _quieter_, so that Buccellati almost has to strain to hear him, "I would also kiss you goodnight. Like usual."

_Oh_.

Buccellati's heart stutters, spreading a pleasant flush through his entire torso, making his face go hotter. That 'Like usual' conjures up a few memories of the soft, lipstick-laden shape of Abbacchio's mouth against his own. Gets Buccellati melting that much more.

But also…he _knows_ Abbacchio, and so he can tell that these words are fueled by more than just distance and the visual privacy that a phone call offers.

So instead of '_I'd like that_' or '_that sounds wonderful_' or even '_you are an absolute sweetheart_' or any other glowing response that properly articulates how Buccellati actually feels about such a warm sentiment, he winds up sputtering out a nervous:

"You're drunk."

Great, Bruno. And you were worried about killing the romantic mood _before_.

"…Only a little," Abbacchio grumbles, but he doesn't sound put off. Just disgruntled at being caught. "You left me alone with only Mista and Narancia for company, what did you expect?"

Yet_ another_ too-fond smile tugs at Buccellati's mouth before he can stop it. He's glad he opted for separate bedrooms this time around, because he knows for a fact that Fugo would tease him endlessly for this if he saw.

Something about the sleepy mumble of Abbacchio's voice as he complains, and murmurs heartwarming words…it has Buccellati all kinds of scrambled.

In fact, he is so sufficiently scrambled, that his mouth deposits _even_ _more_ ill-fitted words into the conversation.

It drops an, "I love you," of all things. In a sappy, soft tone of voice and everything.

_Shit_.

They haven't –

They don't say that. Not yet.

They don't _have_ to, because Buccellati knows that this glowing feeling in his heart can't be anything else. Just as he knows that Abbacchio is cagey about it.

_And_ he _also_ knows that over the phone and out of the blue – when the receiving party is _drunk_ – is _not_ how you confess stuff like this _at all_.

Yet there he went. And now here he is. Physically biting his tongue. Mentally kicking himself.

On the other side of the line, Leone is silent.

He stays quiet for such a long time that Buccellati very nearly chokes out an apology and backtracks, but before he can, Abbacchio _finally_ responds – in pretty much the last way Buccellati would have expected him to.

"Love you, too."

Buccellati starts breathing again. His heart seems convinced he's just run a marathon. He feels like he should _say_ something – he _has_ to say something, right? – but no words come. The overwhelming urge to kiss Abbacchio is all that he's left with, and he wants to pour that affection into _some_ kind of sweet nothing but he _can't_.

"You should get some sleep," Abbacchio picks up the dropped conversation a minute later, somehow managing to sound only a little bit awkward. "You're still coming home tomorrow night, right?"

Coaxing his mouth back to working order, Buccellati can't get out more than a simple "Yes," for an answer.

There's an affirmative noise from Abbacchio. "I'll see you then."

"So you can give me that goodnight kiss?"

Woah, alright, _maybe_ his mouth isn't in working order after all, if it's back to spouting _whatever it feels like_ at the _worst_ points in the conversation.

"…Yeah," Abbacchio breathes out, liquid courage apparently having finally deserted him, "yeah."

Sitting frozen on the bed, Buccellati is _too damn flustered _to respond. Leaving poor Abbacchio to once again stew in silence before polishing off the phone call.

"Sleep well, Bruno."

"Goodnight, Leone."

(He has to bite his tongue (again!) on the second 'I love you' that tries to tack itself onto the end there. There'll be plenty of time for that when they're together again.)

x

Buccellati's bedroom door closes behind him, and familiar arms immediately wrap comfortable around his shoulders, pulling him in close until his head is tucked securely beneath Abbacchio's chin.

It's _nice_. He returns the hug, more than happy to melt into Abbacchio's chest.

A quiet, "Welcome home," is dropped into Buccellati's hair, followed by a kiss there, and then another on his cheek. Abbacchio's lips are soft – firm with intent, and clean of lipstick. Their touch has Buccellati's eyelids fluttering low.

This is much better than being met at the station by the standoffish Abbacchio known to the public.

Here, in the privacy of his room, Buccellati is free to let Abbacchio take both of their guards down in that gentle way he has.

Buccellati can throw his guard clean out the window and down the street, even, because there's a certain safety to Abbacchio that doesn't quite exist anywhere else. Which is kind of terrifying. But Buccellati will sink into this safety whenever it's offered, because he has a very bad habit of letting his heart win out when its strings are pulled hard enough.

Right now, for instance, he's liable to fall asleep standing up, cradled close to Abbacchio as he is. A tired smile forms at the corner of Buccellati's lips as _another_ kiss is pressed to his cheek, tipping his head with the force of it.

"I missed you," he says. They're words shaken loose by too much affection. _Again_. Just like during last night's phone call.

Abbacchio's mouth leaves Buccellati's face alone for a second, backing off just enough that Buccellati can spot the pink flaring up his cheeks. "…Me, too."

Fingers brushing at Abbacchio's jaw, Buccellati means to kiss him, but kind of winds up on a detour. He gets lost in purple-gold eyes that are brimming with too many emotions to count, although Buccellati tries.

It's no problem, though, his getting sidetracked.

Because Abbacchio leans in until his nose nudges at the side of Buccellati's, lips close enough to brush gentle over his mouth.

Buccellati's eyes slip shut. He's sure that Abbacchio's grip on him is the only reason he's still standing. His knees are weak. (His _heart_ is weak.)

The hand still resting on Abbacchio's jaw shifts to tangle in long white hair, tilting his head to deepen the contact as Abbacchio's lips are locked in an overlapping slide with his own. That mouth works Buccellati to full relaxation, pulling back for a moment only to dip back in, and Buccellati's heart beats content in his chest.

"Goodnight," Abbacchio mumbles, so close that Buccellati can taste the word.

* * *

4.

"So tomorrow, I want you to – are you listening?"

Abbacchio snaps back to awareness, sitting up straighter in his chair. "Yes," is his automatic response.

Even though he isn't one hundred percent sure what Buccellati was just saying. He's maybe eighty-five percent sure, though. Which is close enough.

"Don't fall asleep on me," Buccellati chides, rubbing Abbacchio's ring finger between two of his own. He dips the nail polish brush back into the bottle, swiping the excess off onto the lip before adding a second coat to Abbacchio's nail. "We're planning out tomorrow's job, since you won't let me get any real work done."

That's true, but it's also a big fat lie. There's no real work to be done, Abbacchio knows for a fact, which is why he's here, enacting a carefully concocted plan to get Buccellati into bed at a decent hour.

…A plan which will absolutely fail if he himself falls asleep before he can complete it, so he had better get it together already.

This chair that Abbacchio dragged over here isn't even that comfortable! It's _Buccellati_ that's the problem. _He's_ what's comfortable. With his calves and ankles all tangled with Abbacchio's beneath the desk, and his warm, calloused hands cradling Abbacchio's fingers with care as he paints his nails.

"I still don't understand why you always want me to do this for you." Buccellati sets Abbacchio's right hand down, slipping his own beneath the left to angle Abbacchio's thumb for better access. "You can do it by yourself just fine."

There's a knowing sort of glint in his eye when he meets Abbacchio's gaze from beneath dark bangs. Just a quick flicker before his focus is back on his work, but it's enough.

Oh, Buccellati is very much onto his scheme. That doesn't mean Abbacchio is about to abort mission any time soon, though. The plan is still a solid one.

"Because you do it better," Abbacchio grumbles, "and I'm too tired." Then he promptly stifles a well-timed yawn with the back of his right hand, careful of the fresh polish.

Buccellati really _does_ do a better job at nail painting than Abbacchio, no matter how much more practice Abbacchio has. The reason he bothers Buccellati to do it for him so often is solely because of that, and not at all because it gives him an excuse to hold hands.

"You can't sleep until it dries, anyway," Buccellati points out when he's finished, screwing the cap back onto the bottle of black polish.

"It doesn't take that long." Because Abbacchio buys the good stuff, the kind that goes on thick and dries fast. All the same, he lifts a hand to blow on his nails and speed the process along. Now to really lock Buccellati in: "And anyway, I'm staying up until you go to bed."

A near imperceptible huff from Buccellati. He picks up the top coat that Abbacchio brought, shaking it out of habit before he realizes that he doesn't have to, and swaps to rolling it between his palms.

"Tomorrow, first thing in the morning," he continues talking business, completely ignoring Abbacchio's coercion, the slippery bastard, "I want you to take Narancia to dig around the main office and the warehouse for anything suspicious, while Fugo meets the vendor halfway and supervises the shipment."

Scoffing, Abbacchio rests his temple on a loosely curled fist.

The assignments make sense – Fugo's needed to let off some steam, lately, and Abbacchio and Narancia excel at reconnaissance. This is thanks to Narancia's radar, yeah, but also thanks to the fact that Abbacchio is almost as good at breaking and entering as Sticky Fingers. From kicking open doors to picking locks to using Moody Blues to retrieve passcodes and the like.

No, the assignments are fine, the problem is…well.

"We're really going to stick our noses into this ice cream shop shit, huh?" As he says it, Abbacchio realizes the position he's slouched in and pulls his hand away from his head, squinting at the mild indents his hair left when it stuck to the tacky texture of his drying nails.

With a short sigh, Buccellati reaches for the offending hand, unfurling Abbacchio's fingers to check the damage himself. He rubs the pad of his thumb in gentle circles over Abbacchio's nails in an attempt to smooth the polish.

"That ice cream shop has been in this town for decades, the owners always pay their fees," Buccellati recites. "So we do our job and protect them – even from underhanded distribution companies that substitute third-rate ingredients when they're paying for first-rate."

Even though he _knows_ all of that, Abbacchio still thinks it's ridiculous.

Still, he'll do whatever Buccellati asks of him (with only mild complaints), and at least Narancia will find the whole thing fun…he'll probably get free ice cream out of it, somehow, the charming little shit.

Satisfied that Abbacchio's nails are as close to dent-free as they're going to get, Buccellati rearranges his hold and starts to apply the extra shine topcoat.

During this, Abbacchio sinks back low in his chair. At this angle it kind of hurts his tailbone, but that's a price he's willing to pay right now to stretch out his legs and recline some. It's a better strategizing position, which he needs because it turns out he didn't give enough forethought to the second part of his plan here.

…This is something he's actively realizing as Buccellati sets aside the nail polish and then promptly reaches to rifle through the stack of paperwork that's been sitting out of the way this whole time.

No no _no_.

Prying Buccellati away from his work is hard enough – _keeping_ him away poses an even bigger challenge.

"You can head to bed once your nails are dry," Buccellati says, now searching for something, probably his pen, "I have some more work, but I'll join you within the hour."

That's bullshit. All of it.

Also, Buccellati won't find his pen. Abbacchio knocked it onto the floor early on while Buccellati was distracted. Setting down small glass bottles in its place and kicking it into some corner of the room or other.

…Or maybe he _will_ find it, because he's already starting to stand up, peering curiously at the baseboard to the right of the desk –

Abbacchio snatches Buccellati's hands up, squeezing them in his own, and repeats, "I'm staying up until you go to bed."

"Leone," Buccellati mutters, half out of his chair, eyes flicking down to where their hands touch before meeting Abbacchio's, "you were falling asleep where you sit a couple minutes ago."

"Yeah, and you will, too, if you keep this up."

Lips pursed, Buccellati sits back down. He tries to reclaim his hands, but Abbacchio tightens his grip and tugs right back.

Losing the use of his hands doesn't faze Buccellati, though, because he just _summons Sticky Fingers_ to zip into the desk drawer (completely unnecessary, there's nothing stopping his stand from plain old opening it, the absolute showoff) to retrieve a new pen. Sticky Fingers holds its prize aloft while Buccellati raises one eyebrow.

So that's how it's gonna be, huh?

Moody Blues appears, grabbing for that damn replacement pen and getting caught in a tug-of-war when Sticky Fingers holds fast.

They carry on like this for a minute – Abbacchio scowling in the face of Buccellati's tight-lipped determination while they (essentially) hold hands and their stands fight for possession of a goddamned _pen_ because Buccellati refuses to _go the fuck to sleep_ – until Abbacchio remembers his _nails_ and yanks his hands back with maybe too much urgency.

While Moody Blues stumbles backward and Sticky Fingers holds the pen aloft with a triumphant, "Ari!" (_completely unnecessary_) Abbacchio frowns at the mess some of his nails have become.

Black polish all squashed and dented from where his fingers gripped to tight to Buccellati's. It's a sad sight indeed.

Meanwhile, Sticky Fingers is handing that hard won pen off to Buccellati.

Damn it all.

Buccellati's sympathetic eyes are on Abbacchio, pen-free hand reaching for him. "Do you want me to fix –"

"No," Abbacchio snaps, tucking his hands against his chest. He's not about to become Buccellati's newest excuse for staying up until sunrise, especially not when he set out to achieve the opposite.

The corners of Buccellati's mouth twitch in what might be amusement. "You sure?"

"Yes."

All the while Buccellati's been talking, he's been tugging those beloved papers of his closer and closer until they're under his nose, ready for him to pen away at. So once he says, "Alright, then," he gets _right_ _back to work_.

"That's it," Abbacchio grumbles, officially at his limit.

He stands up, snatching the paperwork out from beneath Buccellati's work-in-progress signature on the dotted line at the bottom. Takes the whole stack and paces away, starts thinking about where best to hide it….

Buccellati is the reigning champion of hiding stuff, for obvious reasons – which isn't fair, but Abbacchio is going to do his level best here.

"Leone!" Buccellati, of course, gives chase. "Leone, bring those back!"

Ha – not likely. In fact, once Abbacchio stashes these somewhere, he'll be going right back for the computer so that Buccellati doesn't get any funny ideas about emails.

This maybe isn't his best plan, though, considering Buccellati's apartment is tragically humble and therefore on the tiny side, so Buccellati manages to remain on his heels all the way to the kitchen. Which is located only a few steps shy of exiting the apartment entirely.

Hiding the paperwork is useless if he does it right in front of Buccellati, but Abbacchio still yanks open the freezer and stuffs it inside anyway. With his back pressed to the refrigerator, blocking the entire appliance, he's confident he can buy some time to think up a better plan at the very least.

Buccellati reaches past his head to tug on the freezer handle, but Abbacchio pushes back against the door with his shoulders.

"You're being ridiculous," Buccellati complains.

"So're you," Abbacchio complains back. (Yes, he does take pride in being the height of maturity.)

"I told you, I'll be in bed within the hour."

"No, you're going to bed right now."

They stand at another impasse, with Buccellati sweeping his considering gaze against Abbacchio's more defiant one.

And – and that's weird. Instead of peeved, Buccellati's expression is…all soft at the edges. His mouth goes lax, just shy of a smile, and his eyes do that thing where they crinkle at the corners in a way that you'd never notice if you weren't looking for it.

That plush mouth hovers closer, until it can press pliant and warm against Abbacchio's.

"Okay," Buccellati murmurs into his lips, "I'll sleep."

After a few seconds of stuttering Abbacchio's heart starts beating steadily again. His breathing starts back up, too. "…Was that so hard?"

Buccellati breathes out a soft huff of laughter, leaning in to steal another kiss.

x

An hour later, Abbacchio wakes up to the feel of the bed shifting, and by the time he's at full awareness, Buccellati is gone.

That little –

Abbacchio hauls himself out of bed and stomps to the kitchen, where he wraps both arms tight around Buccellati's waist from behind, hefting him and carting him _back to bed_ and _away from the fucking freezer_.

"Leone, I just wanted to file them away for tomorrow –!"

"_Sure_ you did…."

* * *

5.

"_God_," Abbacchio groans, collapsing face-first onto his bed. His feet dangle over the edge with how haphazardly he dropped. "I'm fucking _exhausted_."

Humming in agreement, Buccellati comes up behind Abbacchio, tugging off his shoes for him and letting them fall to the carpet. This earns a sound of approval, albeit muffled by a pillow. Or the edge of one, rather. Abbacchio's face isn't entirely on the pillow, much like he himself isn't entirely on the bed.

Buccellati kicks his own shoes off, bent on shrugging out of his stiff suit with the ease that Sticky Fingers provides.

"Want me to get the rest of your clothes?" he offers the bloodied and worn lump on the bed that is his significant other.

"Yeah," Abbacchio grunts. Or some approximation of that. He's let his head tip to the side a little, so actual words can escape better, but they're still half-smushed.

Buccellati obliges, Sticky Fingers opening zippers along the backs of Abbacchio's clothes – socks included but underwear not – and tugging them out from under Abbacchio. Who lets out a full-fledged moan of relief, his muscles flexing on a full-bodied stretch before he sinks back into relaxation mode.

Too tired to bother with folding or upkeep or even laundry hampers (he knows Abbacchio has one around here somewhere, maybe in that corner, buried under the pile of dirtied clothes), Buccellati crawls into bed.

Outside, the sun is rising – _risen_, now, Buccellati notes with distaste. He sends Sticky Fingers to yank all open curtains closed before dispersing his stand.

Sunlight taken care of, Buccellati settles on his back, eyes slipping shut before he even hits the pillow. His head tips to the side, where his nose meets Abbacchio's hair thanks to the diagonal sprawl he collapsed in. Sweat and expensive shampoo aren't too bad a mix, Buccellati can fall asleep breathing that in no problem.

Similarly, being on top of the covers on a haphazardly made bed is heavenly, the rumpled bedspread managing to be scrunched up so that it digs into the curve of Buccellati's back just _so_, supporting it rather than bending it out of shape.

He's never been this comfortable in his entire life.

"Let's _never_ do that again," Abbacchio grouses.

From the feel of it, he's shifting around, probably scooching himself further onto his bed before settling. Now it's his forehead that Buccellati's nose is bumping.

'That' would be a nighttime interrogation job that started with too many wild goose chases and took altogether too long, morphing into an _overnight_ interrogation job before either of them knew it.

_Not_ the most fun Buccellati's ever had.

"Mm," is all Buccellati can muster in reply. It translates to 'We might have no choice but to do that again someday,' but stringing that many words together is a job that his mouth isn't getting paid enough to do right now.

A strong arm flings across his waist, warm and heavy atop his stomach. It leaves Abbacchio's hand close by, dangling off of the other side of Buccellati's body, so he grasps at long fingers, intertwining them with his own.

He's _almost_ asleep, conscious thought fading. Abbacchio's breathing is slow and deep beside him. His scent all around. Mission accomplished. Reports made. No more work until _later_.

And then his cell phone rings.

The furious noise that Abbacchio makes at the sound is altogether too relatable, but Buccellati resigns himself with a much-quieter sigh. He forces his eyes back open; they're so tired they don't even want to make it the whole way.

Trying to sit up proves a failure, thanks to the arm locked around him. It pushes him back down, Abbacchio grumbling to himself.

His hand slips out of Buccellati's as he shuffles to be diagonal the opposite way on the bed, reaching down to sift through their dumped pile of clothes. His palm rests on Buccellati's stomach, intent on keeping him pinned, apparently.

All the while Buccellati's phone rings on in the background. "It's," his voice comes out rough, so he clears his throat, "it's in the zipper pocket."

"Which _one_?"

Buccellati plucks Abbacchio's hand off of him with his own left, passing it to his right as he sits up so he can lean over top of Abbacchio and help search, half laying on him. "On the inside…."

By the time they locate Buccellati's jacket and Sticky Fingers works the hidden compartment open, the ringing stops.

"Must not have been important," Abbacchio concludes, face meeting his pillow yet again.

"It was Polpo," Buccellati reads from the missed call notification. Meaning it was, in fact, important. His heart sinks more than a little, because this no doubt means more time spent awake and less time spent relaxed in sleep with Abbacchio.

"What could he want _now_?"

Shrugging, Buccellati stares at his phone, forlorn and still lounged atop Abbacchio's back. He's half waiting for Polpo to call back, half debating on calling back himself, and half weighing the option of pretending he never saw the _first_ call.

(…He's well aware that's one too many halves.)

Abbacchio twists around a bit, stretching an arm behind himself to grab for the phone with an irritated grunt. "Ignore it. Tell him we're sleeping."

"Hold on, Leone," Buccellati lifts the phone away from that blind reaching, quelling Abbacchio's hand with one of his own, "I need to –" He's interrupted by a single ring from the phone. "He texted me."

"Mrgph," Abbacchio says.

Placating the grumpy shape next to him with fingers stroking through white hair, Buccellati reads, picking apart the wall of text. The good news is: "That potential new member I told you about – Giorno – he passed the interview."

"Good for him." (Abbacchio's tone suggests his true feelings are otherwise.)

The bad news is: "Polpo wants me to meet up with Giorno as soon as possible, and introduce him to life in Passione." He heaves a heavy sigh, tossing his cell phone aside so he has two hands to try and dig up his pants with. "I should get going."

Abbacchio rolls over, disrupting Buccellati's search, especially so when he leans up a bit. "'As soon as possible' doesn't mean _right now_," he points out.

But Buccellati is already starting up a mental checklist of everything that has to be done before Giorno can officially join them. There's his living arrangements, payroll will need adjusted, odd jobs rearranged, introductions made and information passed on. Too much that will only get done if he does it, or at least sets all the balls rolling.

And he can't find his pants, which have somehow disappeared. They've been swallowed up by the vast ocean of black fabric and gold accents that make up Abbacchio's wardrobe. One sleeve of his shirt is still tangled in the front lacing of Abbacchio's.

A finger pokes under his first rib – and then his second, and before it reaches his third, Buccellati grabs the offending hand.

"You're making a to-do list in your head again, aren't you?" Abbacchio accuses, before Buccellati can say anything.

Buccellati sighs, another handful of energy he can't afford to lose abandoning him as he lets it out slow. "I have a lot to do."

Releasing his grumpiest noise yet, Abbacchio sits up – with mild difficulty, given how they're both entangled at odd angles. He sits staring at Buccellati for a while, purple-gold eyes bright even with the curtains keeping the sun at bay. Any makeup he'd had left after last night is a smudged mess on his face, and Buccellati is very sure he's never seen such an inviting sight in all his life.

So when Abbacchio says, "It can wait a few hours at least," Buccellati takes it as the excuse it is.

He sinks willingly into that lipstick-stained mouth, letting it stain his own as his eyes droop toward closing on their own accord.

"See?" Abbacchio mumbles. "You're exhausted."

"Not that bad," Buccellati insists.

Abbacchio does him the favor of refusing to believe that. He wraps both arms around Buccellati and manhandles him back to lying down.

Not that Buccellati is able (or admittedly willing) to put up much of a fight. He lets Abbacchio hold him to the bed with one arm over his waist like before, while the other slips out from beneath him to undo his hair. His eyes slip closed at the feeling of Abbacchio's lips pressed to his temple.

Already more than half asleep when Abbacchio sinks in close – hand rubbing up Buccellati's ribs and soft puffs of breath at his cheek – Buccellati is completely out before he can hear the whispered, "Goodnight, Bruno."

* * *

+1.

Regaining consciousness feels _weird_. Much more so than it usually does, because Abbacchio is well-versed in these things, and he can tell when something is off.

It feels like a bunch of weights are lifted off of him, one at a time, starting at his toes and fingertips. Or maybe like he was underwater, senses stifled, before slowly ascending to the surface. Some weird sensation like that happens, in between the nothingness and opening his eyes to the bright glare of sunshine and too-blue sky.

Abbacchio should just shut his eyes again, at this rate.

But then the harsh hues of that skyscape are broken up by the more gentle sight of Buccellati, and Abbacchio is wide awake now.

There's blood smeared over Buccellati's cheek, which – oh, yeah, Abbacchio himself put that there as a guide for him. Looks like he figured it out, if the sheer fact that Abbacchio is currently conscious is anything to go by.

And then there's that _smile_. God, the _sun_ was less blinding than that small upward curve at the corner of Buccellati's mouth.

Abbacchio returns it without thinking twice (or even once). "Well done."

Above him, Buccellati leans forward, one hand pressed to the wooden deck on the other side of Abbacchio's shoulders. That tiny smile is still on his face as he dips down, lips meeting Abbacchio's in a gentle kiss.

…This is a pleasant surprise.

Normally, this type of thing – kisses, hugs, affection in general – is reserved for private moments, and _never_ paraded around when they're on a mission with everyone else. When it comes to work, Buccellati is businesslike, keeping himself at a certain distance. A distance which he's _thoroughly_ crossing right now, what with his mouth melded to Abbacchio's and all.

When Buccellati lifts away, Abbacchio almost makes some little comment about that being the most pleasant wake-up he's had in a while, but he's rendered pathetically speechless by the way Buccellati's thumb rubs along the edge of his bottom lip. Cleaning up the lines of Abbacchio's lipstick.

The touch is warm and careful, and probably smudges more than anything. But Buccellati follows it up with his pointer finger, and yeah, Abbacchio's mouth probably looks okay by now.

Buccellati's fingers come away tinged black, much like his own lips, but he doesn't seem to notice. Or care.

"Thanks for cooperating," he says, tone light and breezy as the sea air around them.

"Hmph." Abbacchio sets about sitting up, curling a hand around Buccellati's when it's offered to him and using it to pull himself up. This brings their faces awfully close. Buccellati doesn't back off, so Abbacchio doesn't either. "Like I would ever leave you hanging."

That small, charming smile flickers back to life on Buccellati's face.

"And besides," Abbacchio does _not_ stutter out, because he's _not_ flustered by the simple sight of _two_ genuine smiles so close together while they're _working_, and this time Buccellati's got _black-tinted lips_, "that brat Giorno was testing me."

Shaking his head, Buccellati glances off to the side. "Speaking of Giorno, he and the others should be reviving soon."

Oh shit that's right. And here's Buccellati, blood on his face and lipstick from one very obvious source smudged on his mouth. Abbacchio tugs at him until he turns back, and cuts off any questions with a sleeve scrubbing first at Buccellati's lips, and then at his cheek. There, all clear.

Just in time, too, because speak of the devil here comes Giorno himself, feet clomping over the deck. "Buccellati?"

Then that playful spark leaves Buccellati's eyes. His face falls neutral, and he stands up and away from Abbacchio (who's scowling where he sits in response to Giorno's curious peering and his interruption alike) and heads back to work.

After a moment, Abbacchio joins him.

* * *

**A/N:** Someday I'll stop overusing the 'Abbacchio drags Buccellati away from work to rest' gimmick. But it is not this day.

...I started this months ago, on my birthday, bc I wanted an excuse to write a pile of BruAbba fluff (...as usual). Since then I've taken a jackhammer to it multiple times, and some parts I'm still not 100% happy with, but hey! Posting it for Bruno's birthday, bc, he deserves rest and relaxation,

Thanks for reading! [Seriously, thank you. :')]


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